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“Do you believe in ghosts?”
The question broke through the silence that draped over their dingy hotel room. Owen huffed. He'd been close to falling asleep, and had been under the impression that Curt had already fallen asleep. Considering their past missions together, the man seemed unaffected by the insomnia that had plagued Owen since he was twelve.
He rolled over to his other side and stared at Curt, across the room in his own bed. It was dark, only a sliver of light from where the curtains didn’t cover the window illuminated the room. He saw curts silhouette, sitting up in his bed, looking toward the closed window on his left.
“Do I believe in ghosts?” Owen repeated, incredulously. His voice was rough from —or, lack, really— of sleep. There was no clock in their room, but likely only an hour or two had passed since midnight and their entry into bed.
“Yeah.” Curt answered, fidgeting with the bedsheets that pooled around his torso, still not looking at him. “Ghosts.”
That gave Owen no more information than the original question. He was really asking “why the hell are you asking this” and “why are you asking me” and “why are you asking now when we're supposed to be sleeping so we can finish our mission tomorrow” and “really, ghosts? What are you, eight?”
Sighing, Owen sat up in his own bed. If he learned anything from this past year of working with Curt Mega, it was just how bloody stubborn that man was. If Owen didn't answer him, he'd keep asking until he did —or when Owen threatened to shoot him, which he hadn't done since their third mission together, and now enough time had passed, Curt would know he wasn't serious and disregard it. And secondly, Curt was not one to talk about his feelings.
Not that Owen was either, that came from being a spy, but at least he had the decency to subtly change the conversation. Curt just clams up and stops speaking. If Owen straight up asked him what the bloody hell he was talking about, he likely wouldn't get any response, besides Curt just repeating the question.
Which meant, if Owen had any chance of getting any sleep tonight, he needed to play therapist. Fucking wonderful.
“Ghosts as in?” Owen promoted, hoping for something.
Curt did not respond right away. Lovely. As Owen was about to ask again, he answered. Just not to Owen's actual question.
“That lady we killed today, do you think she had a family?”
Owen paused; there was a lot to unpack there.
During their mission, while escaping from a Russian hideout in the middle of a city in Italy, bombs went off, destroying some buildings. As they were traversing the rubble, there was a middle aged woman that cried out for help, half trapped under the rubble. She had short, brown hair wrapped in a headband that was almost undone. Her whole lower half was covered by rocks, and one big one pinned down her left arm. It was bloody, to say the least.
Curt had moved toward her, but Owen grabbed his arm and pulled him away, ignoring the man’s protests. It was very unlikely that she'd survive, even if they went and helped her. And that was ignoring the bloody gunmen that were right on their tails. Thankfully, Curts resistance had stopped when the next round of shots were fired.
Owen has forgotten all about her, truthfully. Come to think of it, Curt had been more agitated than normal tonight, unrightfully so. Owen figured it was due to the mission spiraling out of control, but perhaps he'd been wrong. Was the blood too much for him? He had issues with his own, sure, but it had never been a problem with others’.
Curt Mega was always full of surprises, it seemed. No matter how much Owen felt like he knew what went on in that man's head, something like this would come and break up all previous conceptions of him.
It was, frankly, bloody annoying.
“We didn't kill her. the Russians did, if anything.”
Curt huffed. “We could have saved her-“
“No, Curt, we couldn't have.” Owen pinched the bridge of his nose. “She was too badly injured, and we were being chased. There was nothing we could have done.”
“We could have at least tried!” Curt shot back, turning to look at him for the first time in this conversation. His eyes held a fire in them, one that took him by surprise —how much energy did he have this late?
“Okay, what's this about, Curt, seriously? Civilians have died in missions before and I've never seen you cry over them once.”
Curt turned back to the wall, and yet again didn’t respond. Owen groaned inwardly.
“Curt-“
“She looked like my mother.” Curt whispered.
Owen blinked. Curt had never once talked about his family. neither had owen; you wouldn't, shouldn’t, in this line of work, too easy to use as blackmail. If you had any family left, that is.
“Were you two… close?” Owen asked, feeling completely out of his league.
Curt pressed his lips together, realizing his mistake. “Nevermind. goodnight, Owen.” he laid back down, facing away from him.
Owen sighed and ran his hand through his hair. What a mess. At least Curt was back down laying in bed. He followed him; Owen really needed to sleep.
And yet, as he stared up at the ceiling, sleep eluded him. The conversation bothered him, it felt unfinished.
“We needed to complete the mission, Curt.” He found himself saying, before he really thought through it. “Her life was one life, what we're doing will save thousands, including your mother.”
That was a basic ideal of spy work; you take one life to save many. If ASS’ 'best agent didn't know that, then MI6 should really consider working alone.
“I know,” Curt sighed. “The mission comes first.”
“The mission comes first.” Owen repeated.
Nothing more was said, and when morning came, neither mentioned the previous night. Curt was acting normal —or, at least, normal for Curt.
But the conversation haunted Owen. He replayed it in his mind for months to come, adding onto the ever growing list of things Curt did that made the man stick in his mind, however bloody inconvenient it was.
It haunted him even now.
His room in Chimera had much better accommodations, but if he tried hard enough, he'd be back in that freezing hotel room.
“The mission comes first.” He whispered, lips curled in a snarl.
How had he forgotten that? How foolish he'd been to believe he could be worth more than his job, just for once. He took a chance, he wanted love, and all he got was pain.
He made a mistake, a costly, deadly mistake. One he would not make again.
Curt never did say if he believed in ghosts. But tomorrow, once Tatiana follows through, Curt will. He’ll make sure of it.